picc my brain

Sunday, 10 June 2012

What are we; humans? What does that even mean?
"I hear babies cry and I watch them grow. They'll learn much more than I'll ever know."
We have all this intelligence that we dont understand,
We know what is right but we do what we want anyway.

The world is a lonely place and we live such solitary lives-forcing ourselves to socially partake in social situations but we go home to empty homes to empty rooms and sit alone on the toilet.
We spend months prepping ourselves for things we wont even enjoy/
We convince ourselves that pain is beauty...

A flower doesnt suffer, it knows it is a flower and so enjoys what it is but we; humans(?), because of our own suffering, selfishly destroy by plucking probing anf proding. A stone is a stone and accpets its density.
It doesn't challenge its strength.
But we; humans(?) attack with them, making them violent.

What are we; humans(?) what does that even mean-
It means we're lost and confused.

We think we're bettering ourservels by aquiring knowledge
when in actuality we are comlivating the process, the natural order, the circle of existence.

Life could be so easy if we just let it
be..
But we dont, we wont, we cant.
We think we have it all figured out but if someone asked, "who are you," would you recite a bunch of credential, list your lineage, your name, your family tree?

Flowers are flowers and stones are stones.
But we are mammals, man-kind, males and females, children-adults-pentioners.
We are smart and dumb, active and lazy, sluts and prudes, pagons and believers, commoners and drifters, elitists and others--

Monday, 4 June 2012

African people have been ridiculed for decades. Saartje Baartman was kidnapped and presented across Europe as a grosteque southern african savage. African dance has been described as barbaric and the art primitive.
I want to-not apologise but-bring to your attention that I may be carrying the anger of my forefathers when addressing this. I find myself blinded by grotesque savage barbaric primitive rage when people criticise the African culture of polygomy.

Sudies have concluded that just over 50% of all marriages end in divorce. Of those 75% remarry only to get divorced again. The 60% of the divorced-remarried-divorcees try again. And again. And one more time for good measure. By the time some of these licentious lovers die they have wed 4/5 times. Now tell me, how is that better than a man who marries 5 women and stays with them all 'til death they part? Don't get me wrong I don't appriciate polygomy just as much as I detest divorce. But how can we ridicule one, who technically stays faithful and keeps to his vows yet no judgement is passed for the other who gave up because statistics premeditated it. It seems like a case of the thief calling the hijacker croocked. We're being hypocrites, spouse-swapping hypocrites..

Mduli, Cele, Sexwale, Mac Maharaj, Zille and many more. More than enough to talk about 'til the cows used as lobola for Zuma's umteenth wife come home. But before another hopeful journalist takes a shot at the sleeping giant that is our countries infrastructure, a refreshing change in walter-cooler talk should be explored.

It seems the editors of Sunday Times feel the Queens Jubilee is more first-page worthy that the building of vital schools in Limpopo. No, lets not stop there; lets dedicate an entire section of the paper to a royal family that is not ur own.
In the fear of being hunted down and assasinated by the Britsh bobbys let me explain. The Queens Jubilee is the crown that broke the camels back. It is a metaphor for the reasin why our nation, and so many struggling nations continue to suffer. It began with the 1820 settlers who drove the western culture. A culture that is not our own. A culture that we continue to religiously cling to. We're allowed our perception of beauty o be defined by their skewed sense . Welve twisted our tongues attempting to impersonate their pompous language-rejecting our natural vernacular because we define our sucess by their standards.

Research shows South Korea began developing at quantam rates onces they ditched the language of the chav and communicated in their native tongue. I've recently been converted to the belief that language, and ultimately culture, hold the key to the a nations progression. We cannot avoid the overwhelming feat of tackling 11 official languages but lessening the master narrative english dictates would be a start. It's heartbreaking watching perfectly capable students, workers too, stumbling through sentances. These people kniw what they want to say but they literally cant because language limits them. Similarly; motivated learners losing hope because they are not only trying to grasp the content of wha is being taught but they are also expected to navigate through terms and jargon they have nver hard amoungst words foreign by at least 2 tongues.

SA, lets stop shooting ourselves in the foot with imported guns. Lets put down the magazines full of women with no hips, no lips and a plain complexion. Lets trade afternoon tea for a night around the fire; ma tellung African folk tales about Dyakalashe. As opposed to smaking a,"Poudly South African" sticker on everything lets actually live it. And celebrate it. As opposed to blowing out the candles for someone elses Ouma.

Sunday, 3 June 2012

i got paid the nicest compliment today; she said I didnt contend. she said I didnt have to be good enough 'cos I'm already the best.

she said, "I'm telling you Inga; even though you dont belong you'll find love in the galaxy, all in His arms"

Yesturday was a beutifully delicicous experience. Dining on laughs upon layers of fallen leaves. It was decadent, under the night sky slitterered with sparkling kisses. The cold hugged our bodies so tight our limbs were gasping for warm air. Me and my friend flew high. Above the dead grass abd selfish trees denying the leaves; their loves, their nutrients. We went there. We got there. And we feasted there;
Upon thoughts of time entiwined in Gods fingers.
Eternity enlocked in Her golden tresses.
Love Bursting from her smile.

Saturday, 28 April 2012

theres a golden glow of the blanket that warms you in it's arms, the cool whistle of the air that compliments your hair, it teases your ears. Theres a musky mixture of visiting and native scents, familiar and foreign fashion. The streets sing with he languages of fench, the gerrman, the english and the vinac of south africa. The traffic throngs through the resturants, it disturbs the shoppers, invades the culture until t is discarded at the top.

Hidden at Mr Pickwicks, there is a display of drifters, alternative clones of each other, the misunderstood and those who want to sneak a joint before lunch. Hanging from the banisters, The Neighbourhood provides comfort for those escaping homes infringemenst. Establishmenta like Lulo's Cafe, the Long Street Coffee Shop and others being the places-to-be-seen by all the right people who know all the right people.

For the socialites of Cape Town, exceeding your daily limit doesnt exist and, "budget" is a swear word. Being broke is a myth and so they enjoy thr entertainment of fellow trust fund babies. Students, aspiring artists, models ad musicians however, survive on savings. Noodles, crackers and marmite become ther staple, when they arent filling themselves on cigarretttes and hydrating with a double whicky and water. The privledged party in Camps Bay whilst the poor put on their best and line the que of Tiger, Assembly and Phez. The pompous posers retreat to their defenitions of alternative. Watering holes such as Rafiki's, Cold Turkey and Fiction feed that hunger. All the while the belt-bike-loking, bare-foot-bearing, ironic, spontaneous, ecclectic loners who seem to be on everybodies lips stumble into homes like EVOL. Many misunderstand, hipsters dont exist. These people are just like you and I; rebels, but more creative about it..

brown shopping bags packed with polysterine plates. Plastic forks and flimsy knives; this isnt a way to live. the vending machine cant be my kitchen and the dustbin my dishwasher.
if this is the life of a socialite, mum, i promise i'll get a job!
there are days when i cant stomach the starch snacks and the oil drowned meals. finger foods suffocated in fat, muffins, scones, custard cakes, danish delicatses, and size 6 dressed dont fit. but i put on a brave face and work off the calories during the toilet breaks.
the travel milage pile up like the pounds making themselves at home around my hips. my legs become as useless as my motabolism, working once every 3 days if ever. spending all my time sitting, sleeping, driving,flying,driving,flying,driving. this isnt a way to live.

can you imagine dying.. that's you, "tickets bra."
i spent the night flying over the restrictions of logic. The notion of us all being a babies dream or the theory that we are in actual fact already dead weren't disregarded. "Heaven is a place of choices too man, remember Lucifer decided to go against God." The rest of us let the heavy words from Willhelm burden our shoulders, worrying us because we feared messing up in Heaven ourselves. I tried in vain to lift the spirits but Jam Jam presented another truth that knuckled down on us harder..
"Some Christian faiths believe that humans are angels that are being tested. That we were up there fucking around and God decided 'hey guys let me give you a time out, mess up now but in the end I'll decide if you can come back."
It seems like the most logical explanation for religion or spirituality-whatever you want to call it. It explains how we are neither in Heaven nor hell. Because we are in the waiting room

naaa, we got pretty baked last night it was a special kind of awesome. There were confessions and heart farts that had us questioning our own personal ideologies.
we laughed about death despite all our intimate fears regarding it..